


The Road to Recovery

by DVwrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Conversations, Fluff, Gen, Hypochondria, Other, post-vomitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DVwrites/pseuds/DVwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Musichetta and Joly briefly discuss Hypochondria over the contents of Joly’s stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Recovery

His cheeks look green tinged; his shoulders are slumped and his arms prop his upper body up against the rim of the bucket, which, in turn, sits on his knees, and he looks positively awful.

As the panic dissipated, although it had done so slowly, his body ceased its relentless shaking and gave in to just the occasional shudder when he coughed, and Musichetta was still rubbing soothing circles into his back as she waited it out with him.

This was almost every Wednesday.

It’s quiet in their bedroom, and Chetta has endless patience as she waits for him to speak, and when he does, it’s weakly, and it echoes into the bucket because he barely lifts his head from it.

“I told you I was sick,” He tries, and she can almost hear the weak smile. Bless him.

“You did,” She concedes. “Several times, love. Did you take the painkillers?”

He shakes his head, before lifting it, brow knitted, as it usually was. He runs his fingers through his hair. Not before he’d noted that they were clammy.

Another moment of quiet passed as he swallowed, thickly, and squeezed his eyes shut. She never stopped rubbing circles into the space between his shoulder blades, and took the initiative to speak this time.

“How did this start? You were fine this morning,” She paused in her sentence, leaning forward, chin resting against the flat of her palm, a slender eyebrow raised. She knew exactly how this had started. “What started it?”

He exhaled, lips pressing into a thin line as he considered it.

“I, uhm…Tuberculosis. I…started coughing this morning. Thought I’d seen something in the sink. My chest was on fire, Chetta, I-…well, I guess I could have handled it a little better.” Another dry laugh, which tumbled into a cough, and his head returned to the bucket, just in case.

She sighed, very softly, and her hand moved to the back of his neck, where she smoothed down the hair there, and played with it, ever so gently, waiting patiently for him to talk this time, and it was a long time before he did.

Joly lifted his gaze again, worry evident in every line of his face now. She wanted to smooth them out.

“It’s all in my head, isn’t it, ‘Chetta?”

“What is, love?”

“All of this,” He gestured, minutely, with his hands, frown deepening, the indent between his eyebrows becoming more apparent. “I didn’t vomit because I was sick, this time. I know I did it because I panicked.”

She momentarily marveled at the calm way he managed to get that out, despite that look still being on his face, and she squeezed his arm as he continued.

“Isn’t it? It’s all in my head,”

“Yes, Joly. It is. But no one is faulting you for that. We know that it’s something you can’t help,” She eased, tone never once straying a decibel over completely soothing.

He tried to smile, running his slightly trembling fingers through his bangs.

“I’m sorry, Musichetta. To you and Bossuet both,” He swallowed again. She saw the lump in his throat worsen as he did so, and she could hear it in his voice.

“Whatever for?”

“You always have to deal with me like this, love! Always. Not a day goes by when you don’t have to work with whatever I’m sick with, and I’m always…sick.” He faltered on the last word, and chewed his lower lip.

This time, she caught his fingers and entwined them with hers, and her laugh was like music.

“There is not a day that goes by that we’re ungrateful to just be with you, Joly, my love. And Bossuet would say the same,”

And his smile was a little less worried, and a little more comfortable now.

“I gave you my clothes in my will, you know. And you to Bossuet. Not that I own you,”

“Oh? And you do, dear.” She brought his hand up, and kissed his knuckles. “And it’s a good job that you’re not leaving us today, isn’t it?”

“Very,” He murmured back, lips curved in a much wider smile now, and for a moment, appreciated, for a moment, that he wasn’t passing on today.

He was very lucky. 


End file.
